


rain on a sill

by soldier-dean (badaltin)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Castiel, Bookshop Owner Dean, M/M, Writer Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:28:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/soldier-dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could feel Cas pause in the doorway. When he moved towards the back of the room, Dean closed his eyes and set down the phone he had been holding for the last forty-five minutes on the windowsill, next to the plant.</p>
<p>Castiel began scratching away with his charcoal pencil, still not saying anything. The sound served as an anchor for Dean, something to hold onto instead of drowning in the sea of his own consciousness.</p>
<p>“Are you drawing me?” he asked, his mouth forming the words disjointedly, rolling off his tongue seconds before Dean realized that he was saying anything at all.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Dean didn’t turn around.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I don’t know how to talk to you. Because something’s wrong, and maybe if I sketch you then I can figure out the problem."</p>
<p>“My dad died today.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	rain on a sill

Dean was perched on a narrow bench in front of the window, unmoving. The busy city street below had grown gray and dim from the sudden downpour of rain that wasn’t letting up anytime soon. He wiped away the fog that was starting to collect on the pane of glass, using his shirt sleeve to protect his hand from the cold. He looked down at it, his hand, and wondered idly at the indentations in his palm, at the pale scars that haven’t quite faded from the freckled skin.

A tiny, innocuous houseplant sat on the windowsill, drooping as if it could sense the mood of the apartment. Cas hadn't watered it that morning, Dean belatedly realized. 

He considered resting his shoulder against the brick wall to his left, but that would mean he’d have to move a few inches to the side so he could actually do that. 

The heavens were ignorant to the commuters below, or simply did not care about their struggle; they just kept spilling over with wet tears and turning everything into a runny, dull mess. Dean didn’t like the rain – never had – but his shop was closed today, and the only danger it posed him was the possibility of Castiel coming back drenched and getting the carpet wet.

Speak of the devil, he thought, as he heard bags drop unceremoniously in the hallway while the doorknob turned. Castiel picked up his grocery bags, and walked into the dark room in silence.

They were still fighting, probably. Cas had been gone for several hours, and neither had reached out to the other to make amends in that time.

Dean heard the other man open the refrigerator and put the groceries away. The rain continued to tap against the windows, filling the otherwise empty apartment.

Eventually, the fridge door closed, and he could feel Cas pause in the doorway. When he moved towards the back of the room, Dean closed his eyes and set down the phone he had been holding for the last forty-five minutes on the windowsill, next to the plant.

Castiel began scratching away with his charcoal pencil, still not saying anything. The sound served as an anchor for Dean, something to hold onto instead of drowning in the sea of his own consciousness.

“Are you drawing me?” he asked, his mouth forming the words disjointedly, rolling off his tongue seconds before Dean realized that he was saying anything at all.

“Yes.” Dean didn’t turn around.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know how to talk to you. Because something’s wrong, and maybe if I sketch you then I can figure out the problem,” he said with the same casual air someone might use to say ‘hello’.

“My dad died today,” Dean answered indifferently. He had braced himself for that twist of pain in his chest, that familiar sense of loss that never really left him, but instead he didn’t feel anything.

The fact that John Winchester was dead hadn’t yet taken root. It buzzed around in Dean’s mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull and nulling all other thoughts and feelings trying to make themselves known.

The scratching of Castiel’s charcoal halted for a heartbeat, before it picked back up again and fell into the same, recognizable tempo. A minute later, Cas set his pencil down and walked up behind Dean.

He slid onto the bench next to him, looking out at the rainfall. 

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. He fingered the leaves of the plant idly, water droplets sliding down his dark hair. Even in his periphery, Dean could see the five o’clock shadow lining Cas’s face.

“I don’t know what to feel, Cas,” Dean admitted.

And, he really didn’t. John Winchester wasn’t exactly a good father, even by Dean’s generous standards. But now, he was a Dead Father.

What were you supposed to feel when your drill sergeant masquerading as you parent dies? It had been months since Dean had last talked with him; years since John’s bothered to make an appearance. It wasn’t as if his absence meant that Dean had to make any major changes to the manuscript he was reading off of every day. 

He didn’t really feel sorrow, or anger, or joy. The one thing Dean did feel, though, by the news of his father’s death, was that ache of abandonment that was always nagging at the back of his mind. He still hadn’t gotten over John deserting him after Sam went away to college, leaving Cas to pick up the pieces and stitch Dean back together. This just felt like another chapter in the epic story of Everyone Leaves Dean. 

He unconsciously moved closer towards Castiel, seeking reassurance that he was actually there, and not just some figment of Dean’s imagination that he created in a desperate attempt to be less lonely. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he spoke, his breath clouding the glass.

“You deserve more than I can give you,” Cas corrected. Dean wasn’t too sure that he believed him, but all the same, it was nice to pretend.

He turned his head to really look at Cas. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper, more pronounced. Maybe they were both having a bad day.

“You okay?”

“No,” Cas said truthfully.

Dean hummed lightly, and leaned his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Cas snaked an arm around his middle, squeezing him loosely.

“Want me to make dinner?” Dean asked after a beat. Cas quirked an eyebrow at him, but thankfully didn’t give a voice to his thoughts.

“This is fine,” he replied. 

“Okay.”

Dean closed his eyes and rested for a little while. He wasn’t fixed, not exactly – but he was better. He could forget about everything, just for a little while, wrapped up in Castiel’s arms while the storm raged on outside.

-

Later that evening, after Dean finally worked up the nerve to peel himself away from Cas’s warm embrace, he went through the refrigerator and put everything in the shelves and drawers where they were supposed to go. The things Cas mistakenly put in the fridge were placed in their rightful cupboards, Dean smiling quietly as he did so.

After their chores were done, Dean made some ramen while Cas picked out a movie. They pulled off the blankets from their bed and laid out on the couch, cozy and content. 

Dean carefully maneuvered his arms so he could eat his ramen while still holding Cas’s hand.

It was good ramen.


End file.
